


Under The Street Lamps We Are Filled With Magnetic Light

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Present Tense, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:02:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am going to change everything - right now, in this second or possibly the next - and my hands won't move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Street Lamps We Are Filled With Magnetic Light

We are driving. 

The rain sitting on the tarmac is making your face turn electric in the night and the glass between your smile and the city does nothing to mute it. There is something unspeakable in your eyes and your eyes are looking at me. 

There's a radio in the cab and it blurs sound and colour together and nothing at all matters except you and I am drowning in the everything, just like the day was suffocated by the dark. Both are inevitable. You are my centre of circadian rhythm. Isn't it funny how the night always seems to be slightly underwater and that any decisions have no consequences and my mind is so much more open with less light? I could do anything and no one can see to notice. 

But anyway, the radio. The hum of it. We are encased here, with the roar of the traffic bending the light around us and the murmur of static voices making our tongues heavy. Your face is glowing under every second street lamp and I am reaching to touch it.

There is gravel embedded in the bloody sheath of my skin but it is trivial. There was a bullet mere centimetres from my left temple but that is immaterial. There is a trail of dried blood from your right nostril to your mouth and I am following it with my eyes and they settle on your chapped lips and I am thinking: "This is consequential. This is not trivial." 

The sound of our breathing is filling the little room - it's like a little room because there's no one in it but us and although we are fixed into one spot (your eyes, your eyes), we are, in reality, soaring - and months ago I would have been thinking of the victory of the case and the little stones in the meat of my palms but now, right now, all I can think about is you and how I can't even see any clouds to cover us. 

We are driving and everywhere around us the fleshy tongues of the midnight raindrops swallow us but we aren't finding it in ourselves to notice. 

I am looking at your electric face and thinking about the ten thousand watts of luminescence behind your retinas: burning, always burning with something greater than what I am. I am thinking about everything I could do and everything I will do. When it stops I will step into the rain, to the door, beat a loving mantra up the worn stairs with the soles of my worn feet and sit and you'll sit and we might grin and then you'll find leftovers for me to eat which I will eat (begrudgingly) sitting behind a television show I cannot focus on because I will be able to feel the warmth of your thigh against my thigh and then you will go to bed and I will take the toenails out of the freezer and sit in the kitchen until seven o'clock in the morning because I am a coward. 

But I am lying to myself in this moment, right now, lying and stuffing my tongue back down my throat with blunt fingertips and watching the voltaic blue dance across your features, because this facade of an unwritten, unspoken language is always better than the truth. 

Your face is so close and we are driving into closer darkness, so near and desperate you can see it rake its blackened hands across the glass just inches from your neck. I am thinking about undoing my seatbelt and sliding closer and pressing my mouth against your fluttering eyelids and holding you so gently and delicately as you pull me apart. I am dancing on my own boundary lines, scratched into the dirt with my fingernails. 

The cab is stopping. I am handing the money over and when I remove my seatbelt I am going to kiss you. 

My hands are fumbling and loud amongst each other as if my fingers are scoring ropes into the air and my pulse is most prominent at the base of my throat and I feel as if I might fly or vomit but I'm not entirely such which so I daren't open my mouth. Your door is open now and you are letting the cold gain a sly entrance. Your feet are outside the taxi. Your hands are holding the sheer black paintwork of the walls to our little room. 

You are out, the whole of you is out, walking away into the darkness and getting enveloped by the rain's mocking embrace. You don't think to turn around. You don't realise how trapped I have become within my meshed skin of hungry blood and rope. I am still a coward. You don't even order takeaway, in the end.


End file.
